The Reykjavik Assignment (Yael Azoulay #3)(70)

Then they were in the room.

Najwa’s eyes opened wide.

“It could be anywhere,” said Nero.

“I know. Keep looking. How long will the CCTV be down?”

“Another three minutes. Then we have to …”

A loud knock at the door interrupted him. “Hey, that’s way over five minutes,” exclaimed Joel Greenberg. “What’s going on in there? Who’s there with you? It sounds like a herd of elephants. I have another spare key. I’m coming in.”

Najwa watched Nero yank open the window and climb out on to the fire escape, Roxana following immediately behind him.

*

Ten minutes later, Najwa was standing on the corner of Fifty-Ninth and Second Avenue, the hair on the back of her neck slowly rising up. Her skin prickled, as though she was about to start a fever. At first she thought it was leftover adrenaline from her adventure in Francine’s apartment, but this felt different. She was used to attracting gazes, mostly of men, sometimes of women, and this was not the same; she sensed a strange field of dark energy around her.

She looked around, taking in what seemed to be a typical Saturday morning. The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians, the road hummed with traffic. Two women, who looked like students, headed toward the subway station at Lexington and Fifty-Ninth, loudly discussing the previous night’s party. A stooped elderly man, in sports shoes and a blue hooded top, walked a small dog on an extendable leash. A middle-aged black woman trudged along Second Avenue, weighed down with brown paper grocery bags. To Najwa at least, none of them looked remotely suspicious. There was no sign of Roxana, or Nero.

She stepped away from the road and started walking through a small square toward the Roosevelt Island Tramway. Tramway was a misnomer; Najwa was educated in Europe, where trams ran along rails embedded into the ground, and this was a cable car, with glass walls in a steel frame painted a bright, jolly red. From a terminal on the shore of the East River, it soared above Manhattan to Roosevelt Island, a long spit of land forty blocks long and 260 yards wide. The Tramway ran parallel with the Queensboro Bridge, which connected Manhattan with the island and then, on the far side of the river, Queens.

A row of benches lined either side of the open space. Najwa sat down in the middle of a bench on the right-hand side and looked around, she hoped not too obviously. A small circular rose garden stood in the middle, surrounded by gray stone tiles. On the facing row of benches sat a young woman. She had short blond hair, pale skin, and wore a black Geox jacket and blue Nike running shoes, with transparent bubble soles. Najwa had just bought the same shoes as part of her latest fitness plan. Three benches away, on Najwa’s right side, was a well-groomed woman in her fifties, with short brown hair. She wore a blue woolen coat and was reading the New York Times. There was a large Gucci bag at her feet, a few inches of denim showing among the shopping.

Both women had been here when Najwa sat down. So why was the hair on the back of her neck still standing up? Najwa trusted her instincts, which so far had never failed her. She took out her phone, switched to the front camera, held it up, and smiled, as though she was about to take a selfie. The screen showed a thickset man wearing badly fitting jeans and a black leather jacket, walking into the square. He sat down one bench behind Najwa, glanced at her, and nodded. Her eyes widened in surprise. The legendary Joe-Don Pabst. What was he doing here? Najwa was about to turn around and ask when he subtly shook his head. She quickly returned her phone to her purse.

As soon as Nero and Roxana climbed out of Francine’s bedroom, Najwa had walked to the front door. There she found an indignant and by now very suspicious Joel Greenberg. He was about to call the police, but Najwa managed to talk him out of that idea. The NYPD descending was the last thing she needed. She placated Greenberg by promising, her hand on his arm, her eyes on his, to call as soon as she had any news of Francine. It was a promise she intended to keep.

Now she reached into her pocket and took out the crumpled receipt she had taken from Francine’s kitchen. The top read: Café Port-au-Prince. It was a bill for $42.95: two entrees, desserts, and coffees. Najwa had already located the place on Google Maps and found the name of the owner, Carlotta. The café was on Roosevelt Island, ten minutes’ walk from the terminal on the other side. She glanced sideways at Joe-Don. He was absorbed in his cigarette, watching the tramcar rise up over Fifty-Ninth Street, slide swiftly along the black lines of cables, and head out into space.

Najwa stood up, crossed the plaza, and started up the stairs that led to the tramway entrance. She glanced around, reassured to see Joe-Don take a last drag on his cigarette, drop the stub on the floor, crush it with his foot, and walk after her.





25

She is seventeen years old, standing at the shooting range with a Jericho 941 pistol in each hand.

The target pops up.

Her father says one word: “Right.”

She fires with her right hand. A rip in the target’s shoulder.

“Right,” her father orders.

She fires again. A hole appears in the center of the target’s heart.

“Left.”

A hole in the target’s left arm.

“Left,” he repeats.

Six inches above the heart.

“Left. Double tap.”

Two holes appear: the first through the heart, the second through the head.

“Left, right, left.”